Jeanne, exhausted, lay with wide-open eyes, absorbed in painfulreflection. Something Rosalie had said had wounded her as though anarrow had pierced her heart: "As for me, I said nothing, because Iliked him."
She had liked him also, and that was the only reason why she had givenherself, bound herself for life to him, why she had renouncedeverything else, all her cherished plans, all the unknown future. Shehad fallen into this marriage, into this hole without any edges bywhich one could climb out, into this wretchedness, this sadness, thisdespair, because, like Rosalie, she had liked him!
The door was pushed violently open and Julien appeared, with a furiousexpression on his face. He had caught sight of Rosalie moaning on thestairs, and suspected that something was up, that the maid hadprobably told all. The sight of the priest riveted him to the spot.
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in a trembling but quiet tone.
The baron, so violent a short while ago, did not venture to speak,afraid of the priest's remarks, and of what his son-in-law might sayin the same strain. Little mother was weeping more copiously thanever; but Jeanne had raised herself with her hands and looked,breathing quickly, at the one who had caused her such cruel sorrow.She stammered out: "The fact is, we know all, all your rascalitysince--since the day you first entered this house--we know that thechild of this maid is your child, just as--as--mine is--they will bebrothers." Overcome with sorrow at this thought, she buried herself inthe sheets and wept bitterly.
Julien stood there gaping, not knowing what to say or do. The priestcame to the rescue.
"Come, come, do not give way like that, my dear young lady, besensible." He rose, approached the bed and placed his warm hand on thedespairing girl's forehead. This seemed to soothe her strangely. Shefelt quieted, as if this strong peasant's hand, accustomed to thegesture of absolution, to kindly consolations, had conveyed by itstouch some mysterious solace.
The good man, still standing, continued: "Madame, we must alwaysforgive. A great sorrow has come to you; but God in His mercy hasbalanced it by a great happiness, since you will become a mother. Thischild will be your comfort. In his name I implore you, I adjure you toforgive M. Julien's error. It will be a new bond between you, a pledgeof his future fidelity. Can you remain apart in your heart from himwhose child you bear?"
She did not reply, crushed, mortified, exhausted as she was, withouteven strength for anger or resentment. Her nerves seemed relaxed,almost severed, she seemed to be scarcely alive.
The baroness, who seemed incapable of resentment, and whose mind wasunequal to prolonged effort, murmured: "Come, come, Jeanne."
Then the priest took the hand of the young man and leading him up tothe bed, he placed his hand in that of his wife, and gave it a littletap as though to unite them more closely. Then laying aside hisprofessional tone and manner, he said with a satisfied air: "Well,now, that's done. Believe me, that is the best thing to do." The twohands, joined for a moment, separated immediately. Julien, not daringto kiss Jeanne, kissed his mother-in-law on the forehead, turned onhis heel, took the arm of the baron, who acquiesced, happy at heartthat the thing had been settled thus, and they went out together tosmoke a cigar.
The patient, overcome, dozed off, while the priest and little mothertalked in a low tone.
The priest explained and propounded his ideas, to which the baronessassented by nodding her head. He said in conclusion: "Well, then, thatis understood; you will give this girl the Barville farm, and I willundertake to find her a husband, a good, steady fellow. Oh! with aproperty worth twenty thousand francs we shall have no lack ofsuitors. There will be more than enough to choose from."
The baroness was smiling now, quite happy, with the remains of twotears that had dried on her cheeks.
She repeated: "That is settled. Barville is worth at least twentythousand francs, but it will be settled on the child, the parentshaving the use of it during their lifetime."
The curé rose, shook little mother's hand, saying: "Do not disturbyourself, Madame la Baronne, do not disturb yourself; I know what aneffort it is."
As he went out he met Aunt Lison coming to see her patient. Shenoticed nothing; they told her nothing; and she knew nothing, asusual.
Rosalie had left the house. Jeanne felt no joy at the thought of beinga mother, she had had so much sorrow. She awaited the advent of herchild without curiosity, still filled with the apprehension of unknownmisfortunes.
A big woman, big as a house, had taken Rosalie's place and supportedthe baroness in her monotonous walks along her avenue. The baron gavehis arm to Jeanne, who was now always ailing, while Aunt Lison,uneasy, and busied about the approaching event, held her other hand,bewildered at this mystery which she would never know.
They all walked along like this almost in silence for hours at a time,while Julien was riding about the country on horseback, havingsuddenly acquired this taste. Nothing ever came to disturb theirdreary life. The baron, his wife, and the vicomte paid a visit to theFourvilles, whom Julien seemed to be already well acquainted with,without one knowing just how. Another ceremonious visit was exchangedwith the Brisevilles, who were still hidden in their manor house.
One afternoon, about four o'clock, two persons, a lady and gentlemanon horseback, rode up into the courtyard of the château. Julien,greatly excited, ran up to Jeanne's room. "Quick, quick, comedownstairs; here are the Fourvilles. They have just come as neighbors,knowing your condition. Tell them that I have gone out, but that Iwill be back. I will just go and make myself presentable."
Jeanne, much surprised, went downstairs. A pale, pretty young womanwith a sad face, dreamy eyes, and lustreless, fair hair, looking asthough the sunlight had never kissed it, quietly introduced herhusband, a kind of giant, or ogre with a large red mustache. Sheadded: "We have several times had the pleasure of meeting M. deLamare. We heard from him how you were suffering, and we would not putoff coming to see you as neighbors, without any ceremony. You see thatwe came on horseback. I also had the pleasure the other day of a visitfrom madame, your mother, and the baron."
She spoke with perfect ease, familiar but refined. Jeanne was charmed,and fell in love with her at once. "This is a friend," she thought.
The Comte de Fourville, on the contrary, seemed like a bear in thedrawing-room. As soon as he was seated, he placed his hat on the chairnext him, did not know what to do with his hands, placed them on hisknees, then on the arms of the chair, and finally crossed his fingersas if in prayer.
Suddenly Julien entered the room. Jeanne was amazed and did notrecognize him. He was shaved. He looked handsome, elegant, andattractive as on the day of their betrothal. He shook the comte'shairy paw, kissed the hand of the comtesse, whose ivory cheeks coloredup slightly while her eyelids quivered.
He began to speak; he was charming as in former days. His large eyes,the mirrors of love, had become tender again. And his hair, lately sodull and unkempt, had regained its soft, glossy wave, with the use ofa hairbrush and perfumed oil.
At the moment that the Fourvilles were taking their leave thecomtesse, turning toward him, said: "Would you like to take a ride onThursday, dear vicomte?"
As he bowed and murmured, "Why, certainly, madame," she took Jeanne'shand and said in a sympathetic and affectionate tone, with a cordialsmile: "Oh! when you are well, we will all three gallop about thecountry. It will be delightful. What do you say?"
With an easy gesture she held up her riding skirt and then jumped intothe saddle with the lightness of a bird, while her husband, afterbowing awkwardly, mounted his big Norman steed. As they disappearedoutside the gate, Julien, who seemed charmed, exclaimed: "Whatdelightful people! those are friends who may be useful to us."
Jeanne, pleased also without knowing why, replied: "The littlecomtesse is charming, I feel that I shall love her, but the husbandlooks like a brute. Where did you meet them?"
He rubbed his hands together good humoredly. "I met them by chance atthe Brisevilles'. The husband seems a little rough. He cares fornothing but hunting, but he is a real noble for all that."
The dinner was almost cheerful, as though some secret happiness hadcome into the house.
Nothing new happened until the latter days of July, when Jeanne wastaken ill. As she seemed to grow worse, the doctor was sent for and atthe first glance recognized the symptoms of a premature confinement.
Her sufferings presently abated a little, but she was filled with aterrible anguish, a despairing sinking, something like a presentiment,the mysterious touch of death. It is in these moments when it comes sonear to us that its breath chills our hearts.
The room was full of people. Little mother, buried in an armchair, waschoking with grief. The baron, his hands trembling, ran hither andthither, carrying things, consulting the doctor and losing his head.Julien paced up and down, looking concerned, but perfectly calm, andWidow Dentu stood at the foot of the bed with an appropriateexpression, the expression of a woman of experience whom nothingastonishes. The cook, Ludivine, and Aunt Lison remained discreetlyconcealed behind the door of the lobby.
Toward morning Jeanne became worse, and as her involuntary screamsescaped from between her closed teeth, she thought incessantly ofRosalie, who had not suffered, who had hardly moaned, who had borneher child without suffering and without difficulty, and in herwretched and troubled mind she continually compared their conditionsand cursed God, whom she had formerly thought to be just. She rebelledat the wicked partiality of fate and at the wicked lies of those whopreach justice and goodness.
At times her sufferings were so great that her mind was a blank. Shehad neither strength, life nor knowledge for anything but suffering.
All at once her sufferings ceased. The nurse and the doctor leanedover her and gave her all attention. Presently she heard a little cryand, in spite of her weakness, she unconsciously held out her arms.She was suddenly filled with joy, with a glimpse of a new-foundhappiness which had just unfolded. Her child was born, she wassoothed, happy, happy as she never yet had been. Her heart and herbody revived; she was now a mother. She felt that she was saved,secure from all despair, for she had here something to love.
From now on she had but one thought--her child. She was a fanaticalmother, all the more intense because she had been deceived in herlove, deceived in her hopes. She would sit whole days beside thewindow, rocking the little cradle.
The baron and little mother smiled at this excess of tenderness, butJulien, whose habitual routine had been interfered with and hisoverweening importance diminished by the arrival of this noisy andall-powerful tyrant, unconsciously jealous of this mite of a man whohad usurped his place in the house, kept on saying angrily andimpatiently: "How wearisome she is with her brat!"
She became so obsessed by this affection that she would pass theentire night beside the cradle, watching the child asleep. As she wasbecoming exhausted by this morbid life, taking no rest, growing weakerand thinner and beginning to cough, the doctor ordered the child to betaken from her. She got angry, wept, implored, but they were deaf toher entreaties. His nurse took him every evening, and each night hismother would rise, and in her bare feet go to the door, listen at thekeyhole to see if he was sleeping quietly, did not wake up and wantednothing.
Julien found her here one night when he came home late, after diningwith the Fourvilles. After that they locked her in her room to obligeher to stay in bed.
The baptism took place at the end of August. The baron was godfatherand Aunt Lison godmother. The child was named Pierre-Simon-Paul andcalled Paul for short.
At the beginning of September Aunt Lison left without any commotion.Her absence was as little felt as her presence.
One evening after dinner the priest appeared. He seemed embarrassed asif he were burdened by some mystery, and after some idle remarks, heasked the baroness and her husband to grant him a short interview inprivate.
They all three walked slowly down the long avenue, talking withanimation, while Julien, who was alone with Jeanne, was astonished,disturbed and annoyed at this secret.
He accompanied the priest when he took his leave, and they went offtogether toward the church where the Angelus was ringing.
As it was cool, almost cold, the others went into the drawing-room.They were all dozing when Julien came in abruptly, his face red,looking very indignant.
From the door he called out to his parents-in-law, without rememberingthat Jeanne was there: "Are you crazy, for God's sake! to go and throwaway twenty thousand francs on that girl?"
No one replied, they were so astonished. He continued, bellowing withrage: "How can one be so stupid as that? Do you wish to leave uswithout a sou?"
The baron, who had recovered his composure, attempted to stop him:"Keep still! Remember that you are speaking before your wife."
But Julien was trembling with excitement: "As if I cared; she knowsall about it, anyway. It is robbing her."
Jeanne, bewildered, looked at him without understanding. She faltered:"What in the world is the matter?"
Julien then turned toward her, to try and get her on his side as apartner who has been cheated out of an unexpected fortune. Hehurriedly told her about the conspiracy to marry off Rosalie and aboutthe gift of the Barville property, which was worth at least twentythousand francs. He said: "Your parents are crazy, my dear, crazyenough to be shut up! Twenty thousand francs! twenty thousand francs!Why, they have lost their heads! Twenty thousand francs for abastard!"
Jeanne listened without emotion and without anger, astonished at herown calmness, indifferent now to everything but her own child.
The baron was raging, but could find nothing to say. He finally burstforth and, stamping his foot, exclaimed: "Think of what you aresaying; it is disgusting. Whose fault was it if we had to give thisgirl-mother a dowry? Whose child is it? You would like to abandon itnow!"
Julien, amazed at the baron's violence, looked at him fixedly. He thenresumed in a calmer tone: "But fifteen hundred francs would be quiteenough. They all have children before they are legally married. Itmakes no difference whose child it is, in any case. Instead of givingone of your farms, to the value of twenty thousand francs, in additionto making the world aware of what has happened, you should, to say theleast, have had some regard for our name and our position."
He spoke in a severe tone like a man who stood on his rights and wasconvinced of the logic of his argument. The baron, disturbed at thisunexpected discussion, stood there gaping at him. Julien then, seeinghis advantage, concluded: "Happily, nothing has yet been settled. Iknow the young fellow who is going to marry her. He is an honest chapand we can make a satisfactory arrangement with him. I will takecharge of the matter."
And he went out immediately, fearing no doubt to continue thediscussion, and pleased that he had had the last word, a proof, hethought, that they acquiesced in his views.
As soon as he had left the room, however, the baron exclaimed: "Oh,that is going too far, much too far!"
But Jeanne, happening to look up at her father's bewildered face,began to laugh with her clear, ringing laugh of former days, whenanything amused her. She said: "Father, father, did you hear the tonein which he said: 'Twenty thousand francs?'"
Little mother, whose mirth was as ready as her tears, as she recalledher son-in-law's angry expression, his indignant exclamations and hisrefusal to allow the girl whom he had led astray to be given moneythat did not belong to him, delighted also at Jeanne's mirth, gave wayto little bursts of laughter till the tears came to her eyes. Thebaron caught the contagion, and all three laughed to kill themselvesas they used to do in the good old days.
As soon as they quieted down a little Jeanne said: "How strange it isthat all this does not affect me. I look upon him now as a stranger.I cannot believe that I am his wife. You see how I can laugh athis--his--want of delicacy."
And without knowing why they all three embraced each other, smilingand happy.
Two days later, after breakfast, just as Julien had started away fromthe house on horseback, a strapping young fellow from twenty-one totwenty-five years old, clad in a brand-new blue blouse with widesleeves buttoning at the wrist, slyly jumped over the gate, as thoughhe had been there awaiting his opportunity all the morning, creptalong the Couillards' ditch, came round the château, and cautiouslyapproached the baron and his wife, who were still sitting under theplane-tree.
He took off his cap and advanced, bowing in an awkward manner. As soonas he was close to them he said: "Your servant, Monsieur le Baron,madame and the company." Then, as no one replied, he said: "It is I, Iam Desiré Lecocq."
As the name conveyed nothing to them, the baron asked, "What do youwant?"
Then, altogether upset at the necessity of explaining himself, theyoung fellow stuttered out as he gazed alternately at his cap, whichhe held in his hands, and at the roof of the château: "It was M'sieule Curé who said something to me about this matter----" And then hestopped, fearing he might say too much and compromise his owninterests.
The other, lowering his voice, blurted out: "That matter of yourmaid--Rosalie----"
Jeanne, who had guessed what was coming, had risen and moved away withher infant in her arms.
"Come nearer," said the baron, pointing to the chair his daughter hadjust left. The peasant sat down, murmuring: "You are very good." Thenhe waited as though he had no more to say. After a long silence, hescrewed up courage, and looking up at the sky, remarked: "There's fineweather for the time of year. But the earth will be none the betterfor it, as the seed is already sown." And then he was silent again.
The baron was growing impatient. He plunged right into the subject andsaid drily: "Then it is you who are going to marry Rosalie?"
The man at once became uneasy, his Norman caution being on the alert.He replied with more animation, but with a tinge of defiance: "Thatdepends; perhaps yes, perhaps no; it depends."
The baron, annoyed at this hedging, exclaimed angrily: "Answerfrankly, damn it! Was this what you came here for? Yes or no! Will youmarry her? Yes or no!"
The bewildered man looked steadfastly at his feet: "If it is as M'sieule Curé said, I will take her, but if it is as M'sieu Julien said, Iwill not take her."
"What did M. Julien tell you?"
"M'sieu Julien told me fifteen hundred francs and M'sieu le Curé toldme that I should have twenty thousand. I will do it for twentythousand, but I will not do it for fifteen hundred."
The baroness, who was buried in her easy chair, began to giggle at theanxious expression of the peasant, who, not understanding thisfrivolity, glanced at her angrily out of the corner of his eye andwaited in silence.
The baron, who was embarrassed at this bargaining, cut it short bysaying: "I told M. le Curé that you should have the Barville farmduring your lifetime and that then it would revert to the child. It isworth twenty thousand francs. I do not go back on my word. Is itsettled? Yes or no!"
The man smiled with a humble and satisfied expression, and suddenlybecoming loquacious, said: "Oh, in that case, I will not say no. Thatwas all that stood in my way. When M'sieu le Curé spoke to me, I wasready at once, by gosh! and I was very pleased to accommodate thebaron who was giving me that. I said to myself, 'Is it not true thatwhen people are willing to do each other favors, they can always finda way and can make it worth while?' But M'sieu Julien came to see me,and it was only fifteen hundred francs. I said to myself: 'I must seeabout that,' and so I came here. That is not to say that I did nottrust you, but I wanted to know. Short accounts make long friends. Isnot that true, M'sieu le Baron?"
The baron interrupted him by asking, "When do you wish to getmarried?"
The man became timid again, very much embarrassed, and finally said,hesitatingly: "I will not do it until I get a little paper."
This time the baron got angry: "Doggone it! you will have the marriagecontract. That is the best kind of paper."
But the peasant was stubborn: "Meanwhile I might take a little turn;it will not be dark for a while."
The baron rose to make an end of the matter: "Answer yes or no atonce. If you do not wish her, say so; I have another suitor."
The fear of a rival terrified the crafty Norman. He suddenly made uphis mind and held out his hand, as after buying a cow, saying: "Put itthere, M'sieu le Baron; it is a bargain. Whoever draws back is askunk!"
The baron shook his hand, then called out: "Ludivine!" The cookappeared at the window. "Bring us a bottle of wine." They clinkedglasses to seal the matter and the young peasant went off with a lighttread.
Nothing was said to Julien about this visit. The contract was drawn upwith all secrecy and as soon as the banns were published the weddingtook place one Monday morning.
A neighbor carried the child to church, walking behind the bride andgroom, as a sure sign of good luck. And no one in all the district wassurprised; they simply envied Desiré Lecocq. "He was born with acaul," they said, with a sly smile into which there entered noresentment.
Julien was terribly angry and made such a scene that his parents-in-lawcut short their visit to the "Poplars." Jeanne was only moderatelysad at their departure, for little Paul had become for her aninexhaustible source of happiness.
As Jeanne's health was quite restored, they determined to go andreturn the Fourvilles' visit and also to call on the Marquis deCoutelier.
Julien had bought at a sale a new one-horse phaeton, so that theycould go out twice a month. They set out one fine December morning,and after driving for two hours across the plains of Normandy, theybegan to descend a little slope into a little valley, the sides ofwhich were wooded, while the valley itself was cultivated. After anabrupt turn in the valley they saw the Château of Vrillette, a woodedslope on one side of it and a large pond on the other, out of whichrose one of its walls and which was bounded by a wood of tall pinetrees that formed the other side of the valley.
Julien explained all the portions of the building to Jeanne, like onewho knows his subject thoroughly, and went into raptures over itsbeauty, adding; "It is full of game, this country. The comte loves tohunt here. This is a true seignorial residence."
The hall door was opened and the pale comtesse appeared, comingforward to meet the visitors, all smiles, and wearing a long-traineddress, like a chatelaine of olden times. She looked a fitting lady ofthe lake, born to inhabit this fairy castle.
The comtesse took both Jeanne's hands, as if she had known her all herlife, and made her sit down beside her in a low chair, while Julien,all of whose forgotten elegance seemed to have revived within the pastfive months, chatted and smiled quietly and familiarly.
The comtesse and he talked of their horseback rides. She was laughingat his manner of mounting a horse and called him "Le ChevalierTrébuche," and he smiled also, having nicknamed her "The AmazonQueen." A gun fired beneath the windows caused Jeanne to give a littlescream. It was the comte, who had killed a teal.
His wife called to him. A sound of oars was heard, a boat grindingagainst the stones, and he appeared, enormous, booted, followed by twodrenched dogs of a ruddy color like himself, who lay down on the matoutside the door.
He seemed more at his ease in his own home, and was delighted to seehis visitors. He put some wood on the fire, sent for madeira andbiscuits and then exclaimed suddenly: "Why, you will take dinner withus, of course."
Jeanne, whose child was never out of her thoughts, declined. Heinsisted, and as she could not be persuaded, Julien made a gesture ofannoyance. She feared to arouse his ugly, quarrelsome temper, andalthough she was very unhappy at the thought that she should not seePaul until the next day, she consented to stay.
The afternoon was delightful. They first visited the springs whichbubbled up at the foot of a mossy rock and then took a row on thepond. At one end of the boat Julien and the comtesse, wrapped inshawls, were smiling happily like those who have nothing left to wishfor.
A huge fire was blazing in the spacious reception room, which imparteda sense of warmth and contentment. The comte seized his wife in hisarms and lifted her from the floor as though she had been a child andgave her a hearty kiss on each cheek, like a man satisfied with theworld.
Jeanne, smiling, looked at this good giant whom one would have thoughtwas an ogre at the very sight of his mustaches, and she thought: "Howone may be deceived each day about everybody." Then, almostinvoluntarily, she glanced at Julien standing in the doorway, lookinghorribly pale and with his eyes fixed on the comte. She approached himand said in a low tone: "Are you ill? What is the matter with you?" Heanswered her angrily: "Nothing. Let me alone! I was cold."
When they went into the dining-room the count asked if he might lethis dogs come in, and they settled themselves one on either side oftheir master.
After dinner, as Jeanne and Julien were preparing to leave, M. deFourville kept them a little longer to look at some fishing bytorchlight. When they finally set out, wrapped up in their cloaks andsome rugs they had borrowed, Jeanne said almost involuntarily: "What afine man that giant is!" Julien, who was driving, replied: "Yes, buthe does not always restrain himself before company."
A week later they called on the Couteliers, who were supposed to bethe chief noble family in the province. Their property of Remeniladjoined the large town of Cany. The new château built in the reign ofLouis XIV. was hidden in a magnificent park enclosed by walls. Theruins of the old château could be seen on an eminence. They wereushered into a stately reception room by men servants in livery. Inthe middle of the room a sort of column held an immense bowl of Sèvresware and on the pedestal of the column an autograph letter from theking, under glass, requested the Marquis Leopold-Hervé-Joseph-Germerde Varneville de Rollebosc de Coutelier to receive this present fromhis sovereign.
Jeanne and Julien were looking at this royal gift when the marquis andmarquise entered the room.
They were very ceremonious people whose minds, sentiments and wordsseemed always to be on stilts. They spoke without waiting for ananswer, smiling complacently, appearing always to be fulfilling theduty imposed on them by their position, of showing civilities to theinferior nobility of the region.
Jeanne and Julien, somewhat taken aback, endeavored to be agreeable,but although they felt too embarrassed to remain any longer, they didnot know exactly how to take their leave. The marquise herself put anend to the visit naturally and simply by bringing the conversation toa close like a queen giving a dismissal.
On the way home Julien said: "If you like, we will make this our firstand last call; the Fourvilles are good enough for me." Jeanne was ofthe same opinion. December passed slowly and the shut-in life beganagain as in the previous year. But Jeanne did not find it wearisome,as she was always taken up with Paul, whom Julien looked at askance,uneasy and annoyed. Often when the mother held the child in her arms,kissing it frantically as women do their children, she would hold itup to its father, saying: "Give him a kiss; one would suppose you didnot love him." He would hardly touch with his lips the child's smoothforehead, walking all round it, as though he did not wish to touch therestless little fists. Then he would walk away abruptly as though fromsomething distasteful.
The mayor, the doctor and the curé came to dinner occasionally, andsometimes it was the Fourvilles, with whom they were becoming more andmore intimate. The comte appeared to worship Paul. He held him on hisknees during the whole visit and sometimes during the whole afternoon,playing with him and amusing him and then kissing him tenderly asmothers do. He always lamented that he had no children of his own.
Comtesse Gilberte again mentioned the rides they all four were goingto take together. Jeanne, a little weary of the monotonous days andnights, was quite happy in anticipation of these plans, and for a weekamused herself making a riding habit.
They always set out two and two, the comtesse and Julien ahead, thecount and Jeanne a hundred feet behind them, talking quietly, likegood friends, for such they had become through the sympathy of theirstraightforward minds and simple hearts. The others often spoke in alow tone, sometimes bursting into laughter and looking quickly at eachother, as though their eyes were expressing what they dared not utter.And they would suddenly set off at a gallop, impelled by a desire toflee, to get away, far away.
Then Gilberte would seem to be growing irritable. Her sharp voice,borne on the breeze, occasionally reached the ears of the loiteringcouple. The comte would smile and say to Jeanne: "She does not alwaysget out of bed the right side, that wife of mine."
One evening as they were coming home the comtesse was teasing hermount, spurring it and then checking it abruptly. They heard Juliensay several time: "Take care, take care; you will be thrown." "So muchthe worse," she replied; "it is none of your business," in a hardclear tone that resounded across the fields as though the words hungin the air.
The animal reared, plunged and champed the bit. The comte, uneasy,shouted: "Be careful, Gilberte!" Then, as if in defiance, with one ofthose impulses of a woman whom nothing can stop, she struck her horsebrutally between the ears. The animal reared in anger, pawed the airwith his front feet and, landing again on his feet, gave a bound anddarted across the plain at full speed.
First it crossed the meadow, then plunging into a ploughed fieldkicked up the damp rich earth behind it, going so fast that one couldhardly distinguish its rider. Julien remained transfixed withastonishment, calling out in despair: "Madame, madame!" but the comtewas rather annoyed, and, bending forward on his heavy mount, he urgedit forward and started out at such a pace, spurring it on with hisvoice, his gestures and the spur, that the huge horseman seemed to becarrying the heavy beast between his legs and to be lifting it up asif to fly. They went at incredible speed, straight ahead, and Jeannesaw the outline of the wife and of the husband fleeing getting smallerand disappearing in the distance, as if they were two birds pursuingeach other to the verge of the horizon.
Julien, approaching Jeanne slowly, murmured angrily: "I think she iscrazy to-day." And they set out together to follow their friends, whowere now hidden by the rising ground.
At the end of about a quarter of an hour they saw them returning andpresently joined them. The comte, perspiring, his face red, butsmiling, happy and triumphant, was holding his wife's trembling horsein his iron grasp. Gilberte was pale, her face sad and drawn, and shewas leaning one hand on her husband's shoulder as if she were going tofaint. Jeanne understood now that the comte loved her madly.
After this the comtesse for some months seemed happier than she hadever been. She came to the "Poplars" more frequently, laughedcontinually and kissed Jeanne impulsively. One might have said thatsome mysterious charm had come into her life. Her husband was alsoquite happy and never took his eyes off her. He said to Jeanne oneevening: "We are very happy just now. Gilberte has never been so niceas this. She never is out of humor, never gets angry. I feel that sheloves me; until now I was not sure of it."
Julien also seemed changed, no longer impatient, as though thefriendship between the two families had brought peace and happiness toboth. The spring was singularly early and mild. Everything seemed tobe coming to life beneath the quickening rays of the sun. Jeanne wasvaguely troubled at this awakening of nature. Memories came to her ofthe early days of her love. Not that her love for Julien was renewed;that was over, over forever. But all her being, caressed by thebreeze, filled with the fragrance of spring, was disturbed as thoughin response to some invisible and tender appeal. She loved to bealone, to give herself up in the sunlight to all kinds of vague andcalm enjoyment which did not necessitate thinking.
One morning as she was in a reverie a vision came to her, a swiftvision of the sunlit nook amid the dark foliage in the little woodnear Étretat. It was there that she had for the first time trembled,when beside the young man who loved her then. It was there that he haduttered for the first time the timid desire of his heart. It was therethat she thought that she had all at once reached the radiant futureof her hopes. She wished to see this wood again, to make a sort ofsentimental and superstitious pilgrimage, as though a return to thisspot might somehow change the current of her life. Julien had beengone since daybreak, she knew not whither. She had the little whitehorse, which she sometimes rode, saddled, and she set out. It was oneof those days when nothing seemed stirring, not a blade of grass, nota leaf. All seemed wrapped in a golden mist beneath the blazing sun.Jeanne walked her horse, soothed and happy.
She descended into the valley which leads to the sea, between thegreat arches in the cliff that are called the "Gates" of Étretat, andslowly reached the wood. The sunlight was streaming through the stillscanty foliage. She wandered about the little paths, looking for thespot.
All at once, as she was going along one of the lower paths, sheperceived at the farther end of it two horses tied to a tree andrecognized them at once; they belonged to Gilberte and Julien. Theloneliness of the place was beginning to be irksome to her, and shewas pleased at this chance meeting, and whipped up her horse.
When she reached the two patient animals, who were probably accustomedto these long halts, she called. There was no reply. A woman's gloveand two riding whips lay on the beaten-down grass. So they had nodoubt sat down there awhile and then walked away leaving their horsestied.
She waited a quarter of an hour, twenty minutes, surprised, notunderstanding what could be keeping them. She had dismounted. She satthere, leaning against a tree trunk. Suddenly a thought came to her asshe glanced again at the glove, the whips and the two horses left tiedthere, and she sprang to her saddle with an irresistible desire tomake her escape.
She started off at a gallop for the "Poplars." She was turning thingsover in her mind, trying to reason, to put two and two together, tocompare facts. How was it that she had not suspected this sooner? Howwas it that she had not noticed anything? How was it she had notguessed the reason of Julien's frequent absences, the renewal of hisformer attention to his appearance and the improvement in his temper?She now recalled Gilberte's nervous abruptness, her exaggeratedaffection and the kind of beaming happiness in which she seemed toexist latterly and that so pleased the comte.
She reined in her horse, as she wanted to think, and the quick pacedisturbed her ideas.
As soon as the first emotion was over she became almost calm, withoutjealousy or hatred, but filled with contempt. She hardly gave Julien athought; nothing he might do could astonish her. But the doubletreachery of the comtesse, her friend, disgusted her. Everyone, then,was treacherous, untruthful and false. And tears came to her eyes. Onesometimes mourns lost illusions as deeply as one does the death of afriend.
She resolved, however, to act as though she knew nothing, to close thedoors of her heart to all ordinary affection and to love no one butPaul and her parents and to endure other people with an undisturbedcountenance.
As soon as she got home she ran to her son, carried him up to her roomand kissed him passionately for an hour.
Julien came home to dinner, smiling and attentive, and appearedinterested as he asked: "Are not father and little mother coming thisyear?"
She was so grateful to him for this little attention that she almostforgave him for the discovery she had made in the wood, and she wasfilled all of a sudden with an intense desire to see without delay thetwo beings in the world whom she loved next to Paul, and passed thewhole evening writing to them to hasten their journey.
They promised to be there on the 20th of May and it was now the 7th.
She awaited their arrival with a growing impatience, as though shefelt, in addition to her filial affection, the need of opening herheart to honest hearts, to talk with frankness to pure-minded people,devoid of all infamy, all of whose life, actions and thoughts had beenupright at all times.
What she now felt was a sort of moral isolation, amid all thisimmorality, and, although she had learned suddenly to disseminate,although she received the comtesse with outstretched hand and smilinglips, she felt this consciousness of hollowness, this contempt forhumanity increasing and enveloping her, and the petty gossip of thedistrict gave her a still greater disgust, a still lower opinion ofher fellow creatures.
The immorality of the peasants shocked her, and this warm springseemed to stir the sap in human beings as well as in plants. Jeannedid not belong to the race of peasants who are dominated by theirlower instincts. Julien one day awakened her aversion anew by tellingher a coarse story that had been told to him and that he consideredvery amusing.
When the travelling carriage stopped at the door and the happy face ofthe baron appeared at the window Jeanne was stirred with so deep anemotion, such a tumultuous feeling of affection as she had neverbefore experienced. But when she saw her mother she was shocked andalmost fainted. The baroness, in six months, had aged ten years. Herheavy cheeks had grown flabby and purple, as though the blood werecongested; her eyes were dim and she could no longer move about unlesssupported under each arm. Her breathing was difficult and wheezing andaffected those near her with a painful sensation.
When Jeanne had taken them to their room, she retired to her own inorder to have a good cry, as she was so upset. Then she went to lookfor her father, and throwing herself into his arms, she exclaimed, hereyes still full of tears: "Oh, how mother is changed! What is thematter with her? Tell me, what is the matter?" He was much surprisedand replied: "Do you think so? What an idea! Why, no. I have neverbeen away from her. I assure you that I do not think she looks ill.She always looks like that."
That evening Julien said to his wife: "Your mother is in a pretty badway. I think she will not last long." And as Jeanne burst out sobbing,he became annoyed. "Come, I did not say there was no hope for her. Youalways exaggerate everything. She is changed, that's all. She is nolonger young."
The baroness was not able to walk any distance and only went out forhalf an hour each day to take one turn in her avenue and then shewould sit on the bench. And when she felt unequal to walking to theend of her avenue, she would say: "Let us stop; my hypertrophy isbreaking my legs today." She hardly ever laughed now as she did theprevious year at anything that amused her, but only smiled. As shecould see to read excellently, she passed hours reading "Corinne" orLamartine's "Meditations." Then she would ask for her drawer of"souvenirs," and emptying her cherished letters on her lap, she wouldplace the drawer on a chair beside her and put back, one by one, her"relics," after she had slowly gone over them. And when she was alone,quite alone, she would kiss some of them, as one kisses in secret alock of hair of a loved one passed away.
Sometimes Jeanne, coming in abruptly, would find her weeping and wouldexclaim: "What is the matter, little mother?" And the baroness,sighing deeply, would reply: "It is my 'relics' that make me cry. Theystir remembrances that were so delightful and that are now pastforever, and one is reminded of persons whom one had forgotten andrecalls once more. You seem to see them, to hear them and it affectsyou strangely. You will feel this later."
When the baron happened to come in at such times he would say gently:"Jeanne, dearie, take my advice and burn your letters, all ofthem--your mother's, mine, everyone's. There is nothing more dreadful,when one is growing old, than to look back to one's youth." But Jeannealso kept her letters, was preparing a chest of "relics" in obedience toa sort of hereditary instinct of dreamy sentimentality, although shediffered from her mother in every other way.
The baron was obliged to leave them some days later, as he had somebusiness that called him away.
One afternoon Jeanne took Paul in her arms and went out for a walk.She was sitting on a bank, gazing at the infant, whom she seemed to belooking at for the first time. She could hardly imagine him grown up,walking with a steady step, with a beard on his face and talking in abig voice. She heard someone calling and raised her head. Marius camerunning toward her.
"Madame, Madame la Baronne is very bad!"
A cold chill seemed to run down her back as she started up and walkedhurriedly toward the house.
As she approached she saw a number of persons grouped around the planetree. She darted forward and saw her mother lying on the ground withtwo pillows under her head. Her face was black, her eyes closed andher breathing, which had been difficult for twenty years, now quitehushed. The nurse took the child out of Jeanne's arms and carried itoff.
Jeanne, with drawn, anxious face, asked: "What happened? How did shecome to fall? Go for the doctor, somebody." Turning round, she saw theold curé, who had heard of it in some way. He offered his services andbegan rolling up the sleeves of his cassock. But vinegar, eau decologne and rubbing the invalid proved ineffectual.
"She should be undressed and put to bed," said the priest.
Joseph Couillard, the farmer, was there and old Simon and Ludivine.With the assistance of Abbé Picot, they tried to lift the baroness,but after an attempt were obliged to bring a large easy chair from thedrawing-room and place her in it. In this way they managed to get herinto the house and then upstairs, where they laid her on her bed.
Joseph Couillard set out in hot haste for the doctor. As the priestwas going to get the holy oil, the nurse, who had "scented a death,"as the servants say, and was on the spot, whispered to him: "Do notput yourself out, monsieur; she is dead. I know all about thesethings."
Jeanne, beside herself, entreated them to do something. The priestthought it best to pronounce the absolution.
They watched for two hours beside this lifeless, discolored body.Jeanne, on her knees, was sobbing in an agony of grief.
When the door opened and the doctor appeared, Jeanne darted towardhim, stammering out what she knew of the accident, but seeing thenurse exchange a meaning glance with the doctor, she stopped to askhim: "Is it serious? Do you think it is serious?"
He said presently: "I am afraid--I am afraid--it is all over. Bebrave, be brave."
Jeanne, extending her arms, threw herself on her mother's body. Julienjust then came in. He stood there amazed, visibly annoyed, without anyexclamation of sorrow, any appearance of grief, taken so unawares thathe had not time to prepare a suitable expression of countenance. Hemuttered: "I was expecting it, I felt that the end was near." Then hetook out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes, knelt down, crossedhimself, and then rising to his feet, attempted to raise his wife. Butshe was clasping the dead body and kissing it, and it became necessaryto carry her away. She appeared to be out of her mind.
At the end of an hour she was allowed to come back. There was nolonger any hope. The room was arranged as a death chamber. Julien andthe priest were talking in a low tone near the window. It was growingdark. The priest came over to Jeanne and took her hands, trying toconsole her. He spoke of the defunct, praised her in pious phrases andoffered to pass the night in prayer beside the body.
But Jeanne refused, amid convulsive sobs. She wished to be alone,quite alone on this last night of farewell. Julien came forward: "Butyou must not do it; we will stay together." She shook her head, unableto speak. At last she said: "It is my mother, my mother. I wish towatch beside her alone." The doctor murmured: "Let her do as shepleases; the nurse can stay in the adjoining room."
The priest and Julien consented, more interested in their own rest.Then Abbé Picot knelt down in his turn, and as he rose and left theroom, he said: "She was a saint" in the same tone as he said "Dominusvobiscum."
The vicomte in his ordinary tone then asked: "Are you not going to eatsomething?" Jeanne did not reply, not knowing he was speaking to her,and he repeated: "You had better eat something to keep up yourstomach." She replied in a bewildered manner: "Send at once for papa."And he went out of the room to send someone on horseback to Rouen.
She remained plunged in a sort of motionless grief, seeing nothing,feeling nothing, understanding nothing. She only wanted to be alone.Julien came back. He had dined and he asked her again: "Won't you takesomething?" She shook her head. He sat down with an air of resignationrather than sadness, without speaking, and they both sat there silent,till at length Julien arose, and approaching Jeanne, said: "Would youlike to stay alone now?" She took his hand impulsively and replied:"Oh, yes! leave me!"
He kissed her forehead, murmuring: "I will come in and see you fromtime to time." He went out with Widow Dentu, who rolled her easy chairinto the next room.
Jeanne shut the door and opened the windows wide. She felt the softbreath from the mown hay that lay in the moonlight on the lawn. Itseemed to harrow her feelings like an ironical remark.
She went back to the bed, took one of the cold, inert hands and lookedat her mother earnestly. She seemed to be sleeping more peacefullythan she had ever done, and the pale flame of the tapers whichflickered at every breath made her face appear to be alive, as if shehad stirred. Jeanne remembered all the little incidents of herchildhood, the visits of little mother to the "parloir" of theconvent, the manner in which she handed her a little paper bag ofcakes, a multitude of little details, little acts, little caresses,words, intonations, familiar gestures, the creases at the corner ofher eyes when she laughed, the big sigh she gave when she sat down.
And she stood there looking at her, repeating half mechanically: "Sheis dead," and all the horror of the word became real to her. It wasmamma lying there--little mother--Mamma Adelaide who was dead. Shewould never move about again, nor speak, nor laugh, nor sit at dinneropposite little father. She would never again say: "Good-morning,Jeannette." She was dead!
And she fell on her knees in a paroxysm of despair, her handsclutching the sheet, her face buried in the covers as she cried in aheartrending tone: "Oh, mamma, my poor mamma!" Then feeling that shewas losing her reason as she had done on the night when she fledacross the snow, she rose and ran to the window to drink in the freshair. The soothing calmness of the night entered her soul and she beganto weep quietly.
Presently she turned back into the room and sat down again besideher mother. Other remembrances came to her: those of her ownlife--Rosalie, Gilberte, the bitter disillusions of her heart.Everything, then, was only misery, grief, unhappiness and death.Everyone tried to deceive, everyone lied, everyone made you suffer andweep. Where could one find a little rest and happiness? In anotherexistence no doubt, when the soul is freed from the trials of earth.And she began to ponder on this insoluble mystery.
A tender and curious thought came to her mind. It was to read over inthis last watch, as though they were a litany, the old letters thather mother loved. It seemed to her that she was about to perform adelicate and sacred duty which would give pleasure to little mother inthe other world.
She rose, opened the writing desk and took from the lower drawer tenlittle packages of yellow letters, tied and arranged in order, side byside. She placed them all on the bed over her mother's heart from asort of sentiment and began to read them. They were old letters thatsavored of a former century. The first began, "My dear littlegranddaughter," then again "My dear little girl," "My darling," "Mydearest daughter," then "My dear child," "My dear Adelaide," "My deardaughter," according to the periods--childhood, youth or youngwomanhood. They were all full of little insignificant details andtender words, about a thousand little matters, those simple butimportant events of home life, so petty to outsiders: "Father has thegrip; poor Hortense burnt her finger; the cat, 'Croquerat,' is dead;they have cut down the pine tree to the right of the gate; mother losther prayerbook on the way home from church, she thinks it was stolen."
All these details affected her. They seemed like revelations, asthough she had suddenly entered the past secret heart life of littlemother. She looked at her lying there and suddenly began to readaloud, to read to the dead, as though to distract, to console her.
And the dead woman appeared to be pleased.
Jeanne tossed the letters as she read them to the foot of the bed. Sheuntied another package. It was a new handwriting. She read: "I cannotdo without your caresses. I love you so that I am almost crazy."
That was all; no signature.
She put back the letter without understanding its meaning. The addresswas certainly "Madame la Baronne Le Perthuis des Vauds."
Then she opened another: "Come this evening as soon as he goes out; weshall have an hour together. I worship you." In another: "I passed thenight longing in vain for you, longing to look into your eyes, topress my lips to yours, and I am insane enough to throw myself fromthe window at the thought that you are another's...."
Jeanne was perfectly bewildered. What did that mean? To whom, forwhom, from whom were these words of love?
She went on reading, coming across fresh impassioned declarations,appointments with warnings as to prudence, and always at the end thesix words: "Be sure to burn this letter!"
At last she opened an ordinary note, accepting an invitation todinner, but in the same handwriting and signed: "Paul d'Ennemare,"whom the baron called, whenever he spoke of him, "My poor old Paul,"and whose wife had been the baroness' dearest friend.
Then a suspicion, which immediately became a certainty, flashed acrossJeanne's mind: He had been her mother's lover.
And, almost beside herself, she suddenly threw aside these infamousletters as she would have thrown off some venomous reptile and ran tothe window and began to cry piteously. Then, collapsing, she sank downbeside the wall, and hiding her face in the curtain so that no oneshould hear her, she sobbed bitterly as if in hopeless despair.
She would have remained thus probably all night, if she had not hearda noise in the adjoining room that made her start to her feet. Itmight be her father. And all the letters were lying on the floor! Hewould have to open only one of them to know all! Her father!
She darted into the other room and seizing the letters in handfuls,she threw them all into the fireplace, those of her grandparents aswell as those of the lover; some that she had not looked at and somethat had remained tied up in the drawers of the desk. She then tookone of the tapers that burned beside the bed and set fire to this pileof letters. When they were reduced to ashes she went back to the openwindow, as though she no longer dared to sit beside the dead, andbegan to cry again with her face in her hands: "Oh, my poor mamma! oh,my poor mamma!"
The stars were paling. It was the cool hour that precedes the dawn.The moon was sinking on the horizon and turning the sea to mother ofpearl. The recollection of the night she passed at the window when shefirst came to the "Poplars" came to Jeanne's mind. How far away itseemed, how everything was changed, how different the future nowseemed!
The sky was becoming pink, a joyous, love-inspiring, enchanting pink.She looked at it in surprise, as at some phenomenon, this radiantbreak of day, and asked herself if it were possible that, on a planetwhere such dawns were found, there should be neither joy norhappiness.
A noise at the door made her start. It was Julien. "Well," he said,"are you not very tired?"
She murmured, "No," happy at being no longer alone. "Go and rest now,"he said. She kissed her mother a long, sad kiss; then she went to herroom.
The next day passed in the usual attentions to the dead. The baronarrived toward evening. He wept for some time.
The funeral took place the following day. After pressing a last kisson her mother's icy forehead and seeing the coffin nailed down, Jeanneleft the room. The invited guests would soon arrive.
Gilberte was the first to come, and she threw herself sobbing on herfriend's shoulder. Women in black presently entered the room one afteranother, people whom Jeanne did not know. The Marquise de Coutelierand the Vicomtesse de Briseville embraced her. She suddenly saw AuntLison gliding in behind her. She turned round and kissed her tenderly.
Julien came in, dressed all in black, elegant, very important, pleasedat seeing so many people. He asked his wife some question in a lowtone and added confidentially: "All the nobility are here; it will bea fine affair." And he walked away, gravely bowing to the ladies. AuntLison and Comtesse Gilberte alone remained with Jeanne during theservice for the dead. The comtesse kissed her repeatedly, exclaiming:"My poor dear, my poor dear!"
When Comte de Fourville came to fetch his wife he was also crying asthough it were for his own mother.
The following days were very sad and dreary, as they always are whenthere has been a death in the house. And, in addition, Jeanne wascrushed at the thought of what she had discovered; her last shred ofconfidence had been destroyed with the destruction of her faith.Little father, after a short stay, went away to try and distract histhoughts from his grief, and the large house, whose former masterswere leaving it from time to time, resumed its usual calm andmonotonous course.
Then Paul fell ill, and Jeanne was almost beside herself, not sleepingfor ten days, and scarcely tasting food. He recovered, but she washaunted by the idea that he might die. Then what should she do? Whatwould become of her? And there gradually stole into her heart the hopethat she might have another child. She dreamed of it, became obsessedwith the idea. She longed to realize her old dream of seeing twolittle children around her; a boy and a girl.
But since the affair of Rosalie she and Julien had lived apart. Areconciliation seemed impossible in their present situation. Julienloved some one else, she knew it; and the very thought of sufferinghis approach filled her with repugnance. She had no one left whom shecould consult. She resolved to go and see Abbé Picot and tell him,under the seal of confession, all that weighed upon her mind in thismatter.
He was reading from his breviary in his little garden planted withfruit trees when she arrived.
After a few minutes' conversation on indifferent matters, shefaltered, her color rising: "I want to confess, Monsieur l'Abbé."
He looked at her in astonishment, as he pushed his spectacles back onhis forehead; then he began to laugh. "You surely have no great sinson your conscience." This embarrassed her greatly, and she replied:"No, but I want to ask your advice on a subject that is so--so--sopainful that I dare not mention it casually."
He at once laid aside his jovial manner and assumed his priestlyattitude. "Well, my child, I will listen to you in the confessional;come along."
But she held back, undecided, restrained by a kind of scruple atspeaking of these matters, of which she was half ashamed, in theseclusion of an empty church.
"Or else, no--Monsieur le Curé--I might--I might--if you wish, tellyou now what brings me here. Let us go and sit over there, in yourlittle arbor."
They walked toward it, and Jeanne tried to think how she could begin.They sat down in the arbor, and then, as if she were confessingherself, she said: "Father----" then hesitated, and repeated:"Father----" and was silent from emotion.
He waited, his hands crossed over his paunch. Seeing herembarrassment, he sought to encourage her: "Why, my daughter, onewould suppose you were afraid; come, take courage."
She plucked up courage, like a coward who plunges headlong intodanger. "Father, I should like to have another child." He did notreply, as he did not understand her. Then she explained, timid andunable to express herself clearly:
"I am all alone in life now; my father and my husband do not get alongtogether; my mother is dead; and--and----" she added with a shudder,"the other day I nearly lost my son! What would have become of methen?"
She was silent. The priest, bewildered, was gazing at her. "Come, getto the point of your subject."
"I want to have another child," she said. Then he smiled, accustomedto the coarse jokes of the peasants, who were not embarrassed in hispresence, and he replied, with a sly motion of his head:
"Well, it seems to me that it depends only on yourself."
She raised her candid eyes to his face, and said, hesitating withconfusion: "But--but--you understand that since--since--what you knowabout--about that maid--my husband and I have lived--have lived quiteapart."
Accustomed to the promiscuity and undignified relations of thepeasants, he was astonished at the revelation. All at once he thoughthe guessed at the young woman's real desire, and looking at her out ofthe corner of his eye, with a heart full of benevolence and ofsympathy for her distress, he said: "Oh, I understand perfectly. Iknow that your widowhood must be irksome to you. You are young and ingood health. It is natural, quite natural."
He smiled, bearing out his easy-going character of a country priest,and tapping Jeanne lightly on the hand, he said: "That is permissible,very permissible indeed, according to the commandments. You aremarried, are you not? Well, then, what is the harm?"
She, in her turn, had not understood his hidden meaning; but as soonas she saw through it, she blushed scarlet, shocked, and with tears inher eyes exclaimed: "Oh, Monsieur le Curé, what are you saying? Whatare you thinking of? I swear to you--I swear to you----" And sobschoked her words.
He was surprised and sought to console her: "Come, I did not mean tohurt your feelings. I was only joking a little; there is no harm inthat when one is decent. But you may rely on me, you may rely on me. Iwill see M. Julien."
She did not know what to say. She now wished to decline thisintervention, which she thought clumsy and dangerous, but she did notdare to do so, and she went away hurriedly, faltering: "I am gratefulto you, Monsieur le Curé."
A week passed. One day at dinner Julien looked at her with a peculiarexpression, a certain smiling curve of the lips that she had noticedwhen he was teasing her. He was even almost ironically gallant towardher, and as they were walking after dinner in little mother's avenue,he said in a low tone: "We seem to have made up again."
She did not reply, but continued to look on the ground at a sort oftrack that was almost effaced now that the grass was sprouting anew.They were the footprints of the baroness, which were vanishing as doesa memory. And Jeanne was plunged in sadness; she felt herself lost inlife, far away from everyone.
"As for me, I ask nothing better. I was afraid of displeasing you,"continued Julien.
The sun was going down, the air was mild. A longing to weep came overJeanne, one of those needs of unbosoming oneself to a kindred spirit,of unbending and telling one's griefs. A sob rose in her throat; sheopened her arms and fell on Julien's breast, and wept. He glanced downin surprise at her head, for he could not see her face which washidden on his shoulder. He supposed that she still loved him, andplaced a condescending kiss on the back of her head.
They entered the house and he followed her to her room. And thus theyresumed their former relations, he, as a not unpleasant duty, and she,merely tolerating him.
She soon noticed, however, that his manner had changed, and one daywith her lips to his, she murmured: "Why are you not the same as youused to be?"
"Because I do not want any more children," he said jokingly.
She started. "Why not?"
He appeared greatly surprised. "Eh, what's that you say? Are youcrazy? No, indeed! One is enough, always crying and botheringeveryone. Another baby! No, thank you!"
At the end of a month she told the news to everyone, far and wide,with the exception of Comtesse Gilberte, from reasons of modesty anddelicacy.
What the priest had foreseen finally came to pass. She becameenceinte. Then, filled with an unspeakable happiness, she locked herdoor every night when she retired, vowing herself from henceforth toeternal chastity, in gratitude to the vague divinity she adored.
She was now almost quite happy again. Her children would grow up andlove her; she would grow old quietly, happy and contented, withouttroubling herself about her husband.
Toward the end of September, Abbé Picot called on a visit of ceremonyto introduce his successor, a young priest, very thin, very short,with an emphatic way of talking, and with dark circles round hissunken eyes.
The old abbé had been appointed Dean of Goderville.
Jeanne was really sorry to lose the old man, who had been associatedwith all her recollections as a young woman. He had married her,baptized Paul, and buried the baroness. She could not imagine Étouventwithout Abbé Picot and his paunch passing along by the farms, and sheloved him because he was cheerful and natural.
But he did not seem very cheerful at the thought of his promotion. "Itis a wrench, it is a wrench, madame la comtesse. I have been here foreighteen years. Oh, the place does not bring in much, and is notwealthy. The men have no more religion than they need, and the women,look you, the women have no morals. But nevertheless, I loved it."
The new curé appeared impatient, and said abruptly: "When I am hereall that will have to be changed." He looked like an angry boy, thinand frail in his somewhat worn, though clean cassock.
Abbé Picot looked at him sideways, as he did when he was in a jokingmood, and said: "You see, abbé, in order to prevent those happenings,you will have to chain up your parishioners; and even that would notbe of much use." The little priest replied sharply: "We shall see."And the older man smiled as he took a pinch of snuff, and said: "Agewill calm you down, abbé, and experience also. You will drive awayfrom the church the remaining faithful ones, and that is all the goodit will do. In this district they are religious, but pig-headed; becareful. Faith, when I see a girl come to confess who looks ratherstout, I say to myself: 'She is bringing me a new parishioner,' and Itry to get her married. You cannot prevent them from making mistakes;but you can go and look for the man, and prevent him from desertingthe mother. Get them married, abbé, get them married, and do nottrouble yourself about anything else."
"We think differently," said the young priest rudely; "it is uselessto insist." And Abbé Picot once more began to regret his village, thesea which he saw from his parsonage, the little valleys where hewalked while repeating his breviary, glancing up at the boats as theypassed.
As the two priests took their leave, the old man kissed Jeanne, whowas on the verge of tears.
A week later Abbé Tolbiac called again. He spoke of reforms which heintended to accomplish, as a prince might have done on takingpossession of a kingdom. Then he requested the vicomtesse not to missthe service on Sunday, and to communicate a all the festivals. "Youand I," he said, "we are at the head of the district; we must rule itand always set them an example to follow. We must be of one accord sothat we may be powerful and respected. The church and the château injoining forces will make the peasants obey and fear us."
Jeanne's religion was all sentiment; she had all a woman's dreamfaith, and if she attended at all to her religious duties, it was froma habit acquired at the convent, the baron's advanced ideas havinglong since overthrown her convictions. Abbé Picot contented himselfwith what observances she gave him, and never blamed her. But hissuccessor, not seeing her at mass the preceding Sunday, had come tocall, uneasy and stern.
She did not wish to break with the parsonage, and promised, making upher mind to be assiduous in attendance the first few weeks, out ofpoliteness.
Little by little, however, she got into the habit of going to church,and came under the influence of this delicate, upright and dictatorialabbé. A mystic, he appealed to her in his enthusiasm and zeal. He setin vibration in her soul the chord of religious poetry that all womenpossess. His unyielding austerity, his disgust for ordinary humaninterests, his love of God, his youthful and untutored inexperience,his harsh words, and his inflexible will, gave Jeanne an idea of thestuff martyrs were made of; and she let herself be carried away, alldisillusioned as she was, by the fanaticism of this child, theminister of God.